A week after the "Day of Resistance," the dust began to settle. The emergency tribunals worked with horrifying efficiency; the headlines were filled with guilty verdicts and long prison sentences. The streets were quiet again, not the quiet of peace, but the quiet of vigilance. My enemies had retreated into the shadows, licking their wounds, shocked by the speed and brutality of my counterattack.
For the first time in nearly a month, I had a moment to breathe.
That night, I stood before the large, gilt-framed mirror in my private quarters at Downing Street. For days, I had seen only the Prime Minister—a role, a function, a weapon. Now, I forced myself to see the man inside.
The face that stared back at me was both familiar and alien. Twenty-five years old. Young, impossibly young by any political standard. Pale East Asian skin, sharp, symmetrical features that some might call handsome. No lines, no scars from long political battles. Just a pair of dark eyes that held a soul that was far older, far more tired, and far more ruthless.
I touched the face in the mirror. It was cold.
Who are you? a voice in my head asked. Are you still that lost soul from another world? Or are you Morgan Einstein.
The answer didn't come. Perhaps there was no answer. Perhaps I was both, a ghost in the machine, a walking, breathing paradox.
But one thing was certain. This young face, this unthreatening, almost porcelain face… it was an asset. It was the perfect mask. When my opponents looked at me, they saw a boy who had somehow stumbled into power. They underestimated me. They mistook my audacity for naivety, my determination for youthful arrogance. They didn't see the old wolf hiding behind the eyes.
The ambition pulsed inside me, a dark and powerful second heartbeat. This was no longer just about saving Britain. It had never been that simple. Saving Britain was the first stage, the prerequisite. The end goal was far grander.
To save a country, I thought, staring hard into my own eyes in the mirror, you must control it. Completely. Without question. Without opposition.
The emergency powers I now held would expire in a few weeks. The courts would return to normal. Parliament would begin to chip away at my agenda again. It wasn't enough. I needed something permanent. Something absolute.
I didn't want to be the Prime Minister. I wanted to be Britain.
The face in the mirror smiled faintly. It was a smile that held no warmth, only a cold certainty. The ambition was no longer a thought. It was a decision. The road to dictatorship would not be paved with tanks in the streets, but with manufactured consent, with engineered crises, and with the worship of a savior.
That savior… would have my face.
…
The next morning, I summoned Simon Blackwood to my office. Not as a Prime Minister speaking to an advisor, but as an architect speaking to his chief engineer.
He entered with his silent tread, his eyes as wary as ever. I didn't ask him to sit. I stood by the window, my back to him, looking out over the manicured Downing Street garden.
"We've won the battle, Simon," I said quietly. "But we will lose the war if we stop here. The opposition will regroup. The judges will find ways to strike down our laws. The bureaucrats will slow us to a standstill with red tape."
"I agree, Prime Minister," he replied, his voice neutral.
"I need something more. Something that will cut the Gordian knot of this paralyzed parliamentary democracy." I turned to face him.
"I want you to draft a new bill. The most ambitious one yet."
I paused, letting the tension build.
"I want you to call it the National Recovery Act," I continued. "Its contents will be simple, yet revolutionary. It will grant the office of the Prime Minister—not just me, but the office itself—the power to issue legally binding Executive Orders on matters of national security, the economy, and immigration, without the need for prior Parliamentary approval."
Blackwood's eyes widened slightly—the smallest of reactions, but for him, it was the equivalent of a scream. "Prime Minister… that's… that's the end of parliamentary sovereignty. It's the greatest shift of executive power since Cromwell."
"Cromwell had the right idea, but the wrong approach," I replied coolly. "He used an army. I will use the law."
"It will never pass," Blackwood said, shaking his head. "Our own party will rebel. The Speaker will block it. The King…"
"Our party will fall in line if we frame it correctly," I cut in. "This isn't a power grab. It's 'modernizing government'. It's a 'necessary tool to face 21st-century threats'. We'll sell it as efficiency, not autocracy."
I walked closer to him, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "As for the King… leave him to me. And as for the Speaker and the rebels… that's where you come in, Simon. I don't care how you do it. Use blackmail, use promises, use threats. Remind them of their ambitions, of their little secrets. Every man has his price, or every man has something he's afraid to lose. Find it. Use it."
My young, handsome face must have looked grotesque saying such vicious words. I could see the shock and… something else in Blackwood's eyes. A newfound respect. He was finally seeing the real monster behind the mask.
"And to ensure it passes," I added, "we need another crisis. Something bigger than a riot. Something that will have the entire country screaming for a strong leader to protect them. Something that will make the *National Recovery Act* seem not just reasonable, but essential."
Blackwood stared at me, truly understanding for the first time. "You're not going to wait for a crisis to happen."
"No," I said. "We are going to create one."
He was silent for a long time, processing the enormity of what I was asking. This was no longer politics. This was high treason against the very system he had served his entire life. He could have refused. He could have walked out and destroyed me.
But then, that familiar, wolfish smile returned to his lips. He was a man who thrived in the shadows, a man who craved power just as I did. And I had just offered him the keys to the kingdom.
"What sort of crisis did you have in mind, Prime Minister?" he asked, his voice hoarse with excitement.
I returned to the window, gazing out at the gray London sky.
"Something that will unite the country in fear and rage," I said. "A terrorist attack. On British soil. Horrific, unforgivable… and one we can blame squarely on our enemies."